


Every Small Town Has Secrets

by skyline



Category: South Park
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV switch, Period-Typical Sexism, all the South Park warnings, except for the first chapter, high school aged parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-04-16
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 08:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15725409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: Every small town has secrets, and South Park is no exception.





	1. You Give Up Your Soul 'Til You Breakdown

**Author's Note:**

> FYSA, this is a story from 2009. If you came here because of my more recent SP fic, be warned that only the newest chapter of this is less than a decade old.

“My life is shit,” the man at the bar groaned, slamming his fist hard into the glossy counter in front of him.

The bartender frowned at him. Any damages incurred on his watch were likely to be taken out of his paycheck.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” he murmured sympathetically, debating whether or not to give the very drunk man another drink. Would it make the violence worse, or act as a magical cure all?

“It is,” the dark haired man retorted, staring belligerently up at him through red rimmed, bloodshot eyes.

Another man sat at the end of the bar. He was about to walk over and ask the first what was wrong.

They were friends now, despite everything that had happened between them.

He shifted his tie and stood, ready to offer drunken commiseration.

He didn’t get that chance. The dark haired man lifted his head at the sound of a bell meant to alert the bartender to new customers.

In walked a guy the bartender knew well.

“Stuart,” he droned, “Didn’t I tell you not to come back in here until you could cover your tab?”

Stuart McCormick slammed forty bucks down on the counter, “I paid. Do me up.”

Rolling his eyes, the bartender went about the task of trying to find the most notorious drunk in South Park a beer.

“You!” the dark haired man roared, making Stuart jump.

“Me! Randy, what’d I do?” he yelped.

“Your son,” the dark haired man, Randy Marsh, slurred, “Your son’s such a douchebag.”

Stuart snorted, “Speak for yerself, Marsh. Kenny’s got more to offer than yer boy any day.”

The man at the end of the bar listened, interested. He had to stay put. He and Stuart didn’t get along.

Randy just moaned something incomprehensible.

Stuart waited patiently for his beer to get delivered from the all too wary bartender. He waited for the hiss of the bottle being opened. He waited to take a long swig of the brew.

Then he asked, “What’d my son do, anyway?”

“Your son. Your son kissed-“

“Please don’t tell me Kenny kissed yer boy’s girlfriend,” Stuart exclaimed, horrified, “I told ‘im not to mark his territory that way.”

“N-no,” Randy muttered, too drunk to handle talking without stumbling over the words a little, “K-K-Ken- your kid, he kissed my son’s best friend.”

That made the man at the end of the bar perk up. What?

Randy Marsh’s son was Stan. Stan’s best friend was common knowledge. Everyone knew he was attached at the hip to…

Stuart caught sight of him. And he laughed.

This dry, humorless laugh that he’d developed somewhere while the man at the end of the bar was in college.

It made his heart thud dully in his chest. He was guilty.

He’d given Stuart that laugh.

“You hear that, Broflovski? Yer boy’s a faggot, just like you.”

Randy turned, stared, “Gerald?”

The man at the end of the bar blinked and said, “Kyle kissed Kenny?”

Randy nodded, slowly, not able to process the new face, “And Stan said…Stan said that he loves him. Your son’s a slut.”

Gerald bristled, finally leaving his dark corner to join the two other men, “My son is nothing of the sort. It’s not my fault Stan has a thing for him.”

“Stan does not have a thing for him,” Randy announced, “He’s straight! H-he’s just in love with him. He’ll get over it.”

Stuart and Gerald exchanged a look.

Love wasn’t something you just got over. They knew that for sure.

“I’ll talk to Kenny. It’s probably just a game to ‘im anyway,” Stuart said, breaking their long, hard staring match.

Nowadays he was always the one who broke eye contact first. If he saw Gerald coming in the street, he crossed over. If he saw him in the grocery store, which was rare, because Stuart didn’t have the money for groceries, he’d ditch and run.

That was the kind of thing that love did to a man.

“Youuuu do that,” Randy slurred, “And you talk to yoursh, Gerald.”

“Yeah. I’ll talk to Kyle,” Gerald said, although he wouldn’t do any such thing.

He wasn’t getting involved in his kid’s problems. Not when he’d made such a mess of his own life.

“Looks like things come full circle, now don’t they?” Stuart hissed as he downed the rest of his drink.

He got to his feet, gathering his empty wallet and a stick of gum. Randy was collapsed on the bartop; he hadn’t heard a thing.

Gerald looked away this time. He waited till the bell at the front door jingled, and then he set about the hard task of getting Randy home.

All the while his mind was somewhere else completely.


	2. The Only Broken Hearted Loser You'll Ever Need

I never thought one way or another about love.

I want to make that absolutely clear from the get go. I was a guy, and for guys love isn’t a fairytale. In fact, more often than not, it’s a horror story.

So picture this setting. I was eighteen. I’d gotten accepted into NYU, and after that I had big dreams of going to law school.

I wanted to be one of the guys Stuart and I were always reading about in comic books, sprawled out on my bed in days gone past. I wanted to become some kind of super hero.

Oh, and I had a crush. A highly unrealistic crush, actually.

“I can’t believe you’re going to tell him,” Stuart snorted. He was lying on my comforter, the big brown and gold one my mom had picked out, with song lyrics scrawled all along the material in Sharpie.

Every time Stuart and I found a new band we liked, we would write the best lyrics down in permanent ink.

I stared at myself in the faux gold bordered mirror I’d stolen from the hallway, turning this way and that like I’d seen my older sister do when she used to get ready for parties like this.

“Do I look okay?” I asked, ignoring the fact that my voice had come out a whine.

Stuart shook his head, disgusted, “Dude. I can’t believe you’re asking me that.”

He didn’t have that hick accent back then. I think he puts it on for show these days, to make people scared of the big bad redneck. The accent he did have softened his words, and he sounded like a decent Southern Baptist boy, which was what he’d been before his parents moved him to South Park.

“It’s important,” I stressed the last word, checking once more to see if I looked perfect.

My jeans were tighter than any straight man would wear, and I had on my best t-shirt, which I’d stolen from my dad’s closet.

My hair (which I still had at that point) was longish, and shaggy. Stuart claimed it looked better that way.

“You look fucking fine, you queermo. What more do you want? One of those big flashy belts Ryan Vulmer was wearing to graduation?”

“Ryan does have great hair,” I replied, inspecting myself in the gilded mirror.

I felt a calloused palm wrap around my wrist, “O-kay, man, that’s enough. I’ve been watching you pussyfoot around leaving this house all fucking night. Stop acting like a girl. You look fine.”

“But-“

Stuart glared at me, gray eyes peeking out from beneath the uneven tips of his sand colored hair, “I’m okay with you being bisexual, or whatever. It’s been done by rock stars, why not you? But I’m not okay with this little infatuation thing you have going for Randy fucking Marsh. Not cool man. Not cool at all.”

“I’m so glad I have to get your permission to like someone, McCormick,” I returned his glare whole-heartedly. He was my best friend in the entire world, but sometimes he really pissed me off.

Stuart rolled his eyes, letting go of my arm and leaning back on my bed.

I rubbed my skin like he’d bruised it. It was all well and good for him to be ready to party, and okay, I didn’t actually care how I looked. He probably knew that. He always seemed to know everything about me.

The thing was, I really was going to confess to a guy I liked. A _guy_.

Up until then, it’d been easy. I’d been with girls. Being smart, I wasn’t exactly the most popular kid around, and the only sport I competed in was track. But Stuart McCormick; he was a rock star in my school. Girls threw themselves at his feet, just hoping for the chance to get laid. It was brilliant.

It was also a side benefit of being his friend. I got the castoffs.

I’d never been interested in _boys_ before.

Then my mom sold me out. She offered me up to tutor that Marsh kid.

Quarterback for the football team and general asshole, I’d never even bothered to speak to Randy before. Plus, Stuart thought, and I quote, that _he had a dildo shoved so far up his ass that it would take a drill to get it out_.

Then I started the actual process of tutoring the dumb jock. I found myself pleasantly surprised.

He was funny. He told jokes I’d never heard before, even from Stuart, who had one of the lewdest mouths I’ve ever encountered even to this day. He actually possessed a modicum of intelligence at that.

He told me that he didn’t want to stay a jock forever, that he had dreams.

I guess the same lines have been used on girls for the whole of time.

I didn’t care.

The last session I spent tutoring Randy, I realized it. My heart was racing. My palms were sweaty. I’d been afflicted with the love bug.

At the time though, I didn’t know it was love. How could I?

All I knew was that I was struck with the impulse to ravish the school quarterback, and that it was a new phenomenon.

Naturally, I told my best friend.

I can still remember the range of emotions Stuart’s face went through. Disgust. Anger. Disgust. Denial. Disgust. Acceptance. He was a good friend, if anything else.

I thought he didn’t like that I was into a guy. Turns out he didn’t like that I was into Randy, but I’ll get to that.

That night, we’d graduated. We’d walked through the halls of Park Country Regional High School in our garishly ugly green robes, and we’d graduated.

Even Stuart, who’d considered dropping out at least ten times.

I was always the one who’d had to pull him back, telling him that he’d get nothing from his life without an education.

Sometimes I felt like his father and mother. Maybe it was because his actually parents sucked ass. Like my own, they spent the vast majority of their son’s teenage life working.

For my parents, it was out of an express desire to give me a good life.

For his parents, it was out of the need to keep the fridge well stocked with beer and his mother in designer shoes.

Stuart came from a family of what we called white trash. But he was special. Everyone could see it. He had charisma.

Which is why he didn’t understand my jangled nerves.

“Let’s go, Broflovski,” Stuart muttered under his breath, his gray eyes on me again.

He never called me Gerald, ever. He said it was an old man’s name.

He wouldn’t call me Jerry, either, like my parents did. That was a chick name.

So I was always Broflovski, or on some occasions, just Brof.

“Fine,” I sneered back. I glanced at the mirror one last time, checking for any sign of anxiety on my face.

There was nothing. Not even stubble.

At eighteen, I was still waiting for facial hair to really grow in. I was a late bloomer.

We climbed into Stuart’s pickup truck, which he’d earned the hard way; passing out burgers at the local drive in. He had to stand on roller skates and spend hours pretending to smile.

I visited every day just to see him make faces behind the customers’ backs.

He quit that job about two years prior, right after he’d bought the car. Since then he’d been working at the pizzeria on Main Street with me.

He claimed the reason was because it was more motivational having a friend around. He always had been kind of a slacker.

I shouldn’t speak though. I was only at the job because my dad was forcing me to learn work ethic.

Good old dad never believed I’d make it as a lawyer; thought I needed a fall back plan. Thus I learned how to spin dough.

It wasn’t the most riveting work.

We had to drive all the way across town, to where the fancier houses stood.

Kevin Tucker, the host, didn’t come from a monied family, but they’d inherited the estate from ancestors, who’d been some of the founding fathers of South Park, Colorado. That lineage traced so far back no one remembered it anymore. All anyone knew was that Kevin was a poor boy living in a big, big house.

The party had already started by the time Stuart managed to park.

I saw a boy streak down the street seconds before I got out of the car.

Stuart just snorted, “Look, that one’s already unwrapped. Why don’t you go for him instead of Marsh?”

I told him to _fuck off_ and mind his own business. He just shook his head and rolled his eyes. Stuart was always doing that.

It was really annoying.

We didn’t bother knocking on the door. It had already been pulled open by a pretty girl with sky blue eyes and hair died so blonde that it was practically white. 

“Hey, Carol. How’s it hanging?” Stuart asked casually, not really looking at the petite girl.

She was Kevin Tucker’s girlfriend of four years. She also happened to despise Stuart with a passion, calling him a playboy, a chauvinist, and any number of creative insults.

She ignored Stuart, instead turning to me, “Jerry! Didn’t think you were going to show up.”

“Really? Why?”

Carol grinned, placing a hand on one curvy hip, “Kevin told me you owe him twenty bucks from that basketball game the other day.”

Oops. I’d forgotten about that. I winked and said, “Maybe we just won’t tell Kevin I’m here…”

She winked back, “Sure thing, honey.”

Sometimes I wished I had a girlfriend like her.

Stuart eyed her with distaste before pulling me past Carol into the already crowded house.

It was incredibly loud. Some countrified hit was booming from Kevin’s record player in this room, and I heard a more suitable rock song pounding the next room over. Through the back window I could see someone had set up a band in the Tucker's yard, although I can’t swear that they were making actual music.

Stuart’s lips pressed against my ear, breath hot and tickling, and he murmured, “I hate that bitch.”

“She’s nice,” I admonished.

“Yeah,” I could feel him smirk against my ear, “For a bitch.”

He was, as they say, incorrigible.

I glanced around the party for Randy, but couldn’t find him in the throng.

Stuart miraculously obtained two beers, shoved into his hands by a very drunk freshman. He uncapped them with his teeth, and passed one to me.

It was freezing cold in my hand, but it did nothing to soothe my nerves. I took one long, long swig.

Stuart glanced up at me, eyes piercing, “Well, Broflovski. Ready to go find your knight in shining armor?”

I was as ready as I’d ever be.          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes from when I originally posted this on ffn back in the day (almost ten years ago dear lord): 
> 
> I’m tweaking the years. They’re growing up in the late seventies/early eighties. I know Sharon and Randy supposedly met in the sixties, but even saying Stan turned eight around 1997 when the show started, that still means that there were nearly twenty five (considering Shelley) to thirty years that they were together before procreating crossed their mind. Unless there’s like a whole landmine of dead Marsh babies somewhere. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong- but! CREATIVE LICENSE. So, I’m never going to say the year, but it’s definitely between the early seventies and early eighties. 
> 
> Apparently people started using dude in the sixties (surfers) and then it became widely used in the mid seventies. I feel enlightened, how about you? 
> 
> Oh, and yes, Kevin Tucker is Craig’s father. No, Kevin isn’t his actual name in the series- I don’t know what it is. Yes, there is a reason I made it Kevin. Props to anyone who figures it out, even though I suppose it’s kind of easy.


	3. You Are Still A Whisper On My Lips

I was about two seconds into my search when I ended up with alcohol all over my shoes.

Kevin stumbled into me, successfully knocking my beer to the floor. I watched the amber liquid spill out over his carpet. He did the same, but when his eyes flicked up to me, he was all smiles, “’s it going Broflovski? Don’t you owe me money?”

“No,” I told him calmly, “You’re drunk.”

He grinned and slapped my hand amiably, “S’true.”

Kevin’s real name was Thomas. Up until seventh grade, everyone knew him as little Tommy T. Then he started dating some girl who thought Tommy was a stupid name. He started going by his middle name, Kevin, ever since.

The things boys do for girls are ridiculous. I hated my name, and I would never change it. My mother would’ve killed me. Not that Stuart ever gave me much of a choice about what I got called.

“Broflovski!” he wrapped a protective arm around my neck and frowned at Kevin, “This douche givin’ you trouble?”

Kevin smiled at Stuart, “Stuey!”

In a flat voice, Stuart muttered, “Call me that again and you’ll wake up to find your balls in a jar, Tucker.”

“You have anger problems,” Kevin told him, “Has anybody ever told you that?”

“Once or twice or a zillion times. Fuck if it matters,” Stuart replied with a smirk. “You spilled Brof’s beer.”

“Yeah, dude,” Kevin’s eyes widened, with the earnestness of a true drunk. “I’m sorry!”

“No problem,” I told him, because it wasn’t a problem. He’d paid for the beer.

Stuart handed me his, warmed a bit from the palm of his calloused hand. It was half finished, but I didn’t care. I downed the rest and dropped the bottle on the floor. The shag carpet stopped it from breaking, but a couple more amber drops spilled out.

Kevin didn’t care. He was too plastered.

“Broflovski, McCormick, I’m like, so glad you guys came,” he babbled with alcohol induced enthusiasm, “Can you believe we graduated? Man, it’s such a trip.”

“Yeah. And kind of the point of school,” Stuart sneered. Kevin completely missed his sarcasm, nodding like that was the wisest thing he’d ever heard.

Stuart rolled his eyes.

Then he dropped his arm from my shoulders and left, returning a minute later with two more uncapped beers. Kevin made a grab for one, but Stuart deftly dodged, all the while taking long gulps from his bottle.       

Realizing he wasn’t about to get any of the liquor, Kevin stumbled over his words, “I’m going to miss seeing you guys so fucking much…have you seen Carol? Where’s Carol?”

Miss us. Right. No way was he leaving South Park for college. He couldn’t afford it.

Same with Stuart.

Actually, most of the town couldn’t afford college. I was one of the few, the proud; one of the only dickheads capable of jumping ship.

“Skank’s smoking outside,” Stuart informed him. “Better go fetch her before some other dog goes sniffing around that ass.”

Kevin’s eyes narrowed like he was struggling to be offended, but in the end he was too hosed to care, “I’m gonna do that.”

“Alright man,” I waved him off and turned to Stuart, “You are such an asshole.”

“I just call them like I see him. The dog-faced boy and his bitch belong together.”

“You have issues,” I told him point blank, and then muttered, “Help me find Randy.”

“Sure, Chief. Whatever you command.” He shoved his hand down his pockets, following me into the next room, where the rock music was pounding. Jimi Hendrix was screaming something unintelligible, the music pounding into the soles of my feet.

I chugged my beer. Yeah, this was where the party was at.

Two girls danced up to Stuart and I, offering us a bottle of Jack that we each had to drink a couple swigs of before we could get them off our back.

Stuart was more interested in sticking around to talk to the girls, who’d been dolled up in dresses that at the time were the pinnacle of slutty. Now they would be considered downright matronly, but back then...

Anyway, I ended up leaving him behind while one of the girls trailed her fingers up and down his chest.

I was hoping he’d get laid so he’d get off my case. Sex always made Stuart chill, even if it was only for a little while.

I found Randy in the backyard, strumming a guitar next to a bonfire that I was pretty sure was insanely unsafe. Kevin had built a pit for it out of rocks he’d scavenged around the neighborhood.

This being South Park, there were still patches of snow on the ground, despite the fact it was early June.

A couple of Randy’s jock friends were sitting next to him, slamming back beers and a bottle of whiskey. A few girls sat with them, wrapped in lettermen jackets like they were badges of honor.

The funny part about the whole thing was that Randy hadn’t actually graduated from our school. He’d been planning on it, but when no schools had come through with a football scholarship, he’d ended up dropping out completely. His dad, Marvin, had been furious.

That’s why I’d been recruited as a tutor. I was making sure he got his GED.

I wasn’t worried. Randy was smart enough to make it. That was part of what I liked about him.

The town slut, Liane Cartman was sitting on Ryan Vulmer’s lap, licking a line up his throat. He seemed to be enjoying it, so more power to him.

Even if he ended up with the syph afterwards.

I walked over to the group, hypnotized by Randy’s fingers playing over the strings of the guitar and his low, guttural voice humming out the words of a Bob Dylan song. He had an amazing voice. Husky, like sex.

When he finished the song, he looked up, through the flames of the bonfire, right into my eyes.

Randy, like his son Stan, has deep cobalt eyes. At the time I found them more enthralling than any girl’s breasts or hips.

“Gerald,” Randy half-squeaked, surprised to see me, “What are you doing here, man?”

“Uh, I just came to say hi,” I lowered my eyes, shy all of sudden.

Randy set aside his guitar. Real slow, he said, “Hi.”

I could tell he wanted me to get lost and to tell the truth, I was tempted to go find Stuart, get blasted, and forget I’d ever considered doing something as queer as telling Randy Marsh my feelings.

I hated feelings. I mean, I was eighteen. I didn’t even understand why I had to have feelings.

Why couldn’t I just focus on sex like Stuart? Like all the other teenage boys?

Why did I have to be the abnormal one?

Probably because God hated me.

At least, that’s what I figured at the time.

But I was brave. I didn’t back down. I didn’t listen to the screaming panic in my brain.

Instead I shoved my hands in the back pockets of my jeans, a nervous habit I’d picked up from Stuart.

Randy mirrored the act. Seemed it was a nervous habit of his too.

“I kind of also wanted to ask you something. About…um…the tutoring.”

Immediately, Randy stood up.

Tutoring was not a subject we discussed in public. Randy didn’t want people to think he was stupid, and he didn’t really want them to know he was smart, either.

I think he preferred that no one questioned his intelligence either way, to be honest.

“I’ll be right back guys,” Randy told his friends, who made a couple of catcalls.

One threw an empty beer bottle at his feet. This one broke, the glass tinkling and crunching under Randy’s sneakers.

He followed me out to the end of the Tuckers’ property, where the woods began. The foliage formed a tightly woven canopy, so much so that the stars and the moon were blotted out.

We kept walking, straight into the woods, over patchwork snow and garbage; beer bottles and chip wrappers that glinted like the edges of knives. Crickets chirped in the distance and the raucous laughter of the jocks back by the crackling bonfire filled the air.

“What are you playing at, Gerald?” Randy demanded after the silence between us got to be too much.

I leaned against a tree. My knees felt too wobbly to hold me up. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Randy was incredulous, “Tutoring? You haven’t been my tutor in a month. What could you possibly have to talk about at a party? Cosines?”

This wasn’t going the way I wanted it to.

I didn’t understand why he was mad. I wasn’t the hugest geek at school. I wasn’t a total social reject like Richard Tweak, either.

I wasn’t an embarrassment to be seen with. 

At least, Stuart claimed I wasn’t. I got along pretty well with the rest of the jocks too. Jimmy and I had tried to start a band once, and Stephen Stotch had been my chem partner all last year.

“That’s not what I really wanted to talk to you about.”

Randy frowned, shifting with nerves, “Oh. Then why did you drag me all the way out here? I mean, um, dude, we don’t have that much in common.”

“That’s not true,” I chuckle anxiously, “We both tongue-danced with Linda Ryan.”

He winced, his cobalt eyes narrowed with remembrance, “That’s not the kind of thing I want to have in common with you.”

“Why?” I shrugged, “Linda’s hot.”

“She’s a fox,” he agreed, “But I really didn't need to know our tongues had been in the same place. It’s kind of gay.”

Oops. I think that was my cue.

My heart sunk.

“Gay. Yeah,” I grimace, “Um.”

“So?” he prompted.

I took a deep breath. It was now or never.

“Randy, I-uh, the thing I wanted to talk to you about was that…I like you.”

Randy frowned, “I like you too. You’re kind of cool. For a nerd.”

I was so not a nerd, but I let that comment slide.

“No, that’s not what I-“ I stuttered.

I heard Stuart’s voice in my head. _Fuck it_ , he would say whenever I got like this. _What the hell are you getting so nervous about, Broflovski? Fuck it._

Okay, so usually that was his argument when he tried to get me to hook up with a chick, but whatever.

I had been staring at me feet as I mumbled, but I raised my eyes, took a step forward and hooked a finger through the belt loop of Randy’s Wranglers. My lips were on his before he knew what hit him.

At first he didn’t move.

His lips were warm, chapped. Different than a girl’s.

Then the hard angles of his body were suddenly pressed up against mine. I stumbled back against the tree I’d been leaning on, finding myself trapped between Randy’s body and the trunk. He pressed hard into me, obviously aroused, and his mouth was moving in sync with my lips. His tongue delved deep, and I guess this time he didn’t care that his tongue was where mine was because it was so, so good.

I was kissing Randy Marsh, and I was in heaven.


	4. Not Everything Is Supposed To Come True

Randy’s hands roamed up and down my sides. His touch sent tingles down my body in ways no girl’s ever had. I let my fingers tangle in his hair, pulling lightly. He groaned deep into my mouth, the sound reverberating all the way down to my dick.

Man, I was hard. I thrust my hips into his; thanking every deity I knew when he thrust right back, grinding deep and desperate against me.

The night was cool, but it wasn’t the chill that was making me shiver. Nothing in my life until that point had ever felt so uncontrolled.

Nothing had ever felt so good.

And then…he pulled away gasping.

“Stuart,” I breathed, my fingers groping the small of his back.

I’ll always remember what happened next.

His eyes, unfathomable blue, bored into mine. We were both panting; the night sounds of crickets and laughing and the crackling of the bonfire flooded back to our ears. His lips parted, his expression unreadable.

He said, “Get the fuck away from me, freak.”

Randy pushed me hard.

I’ve never exactly been scrawny, but Randy was a football player. There was no contest.

I stumbled back into the tree trunk. The rough bark scraped over my arm, biting as blood bubbled to the surface. The bright beads of red were shocking to me, not because it really hurt, but because I couldn’t figure out what had just happened.

His eyes trained on my arm, on the crimson splash near my elbow, he hissed, “If you ever come near me again, I’ll fucking kill you.”

I watched as he raced off back to the bonfire.

“Mother fucker!” I yelled, slamming my fist into the tree that had wounded me.

All I succeeded in doing was scratching up my knuckles.

Defeated and frustrated, I clenched my eyes against the stars, walking back towards the Tucker house. My plan now included one thing, and one thing only.

Getting very, very drunk.

I found Stuart in the kitchen with his tongue down some girl’s throat. He was grabbing her ass, and she was rubbing her hand over his crotch. I wouldn’t have interrupted, but they were blocking the fridge.

“’scuse me,” I muttered, trying to be discrete so that Stuart could at least get laid tonight.

Unfortunately for me, he was a good friend, and wasn’t too drunk to notice it was me.

“Brof?” he said, “That was fucking fast. What happened? Did Marsh take the bait?”

He waggled his eyebrows at me in a way that was supposed to be profane.

_Stupid Stuart_ , I thought. Stupid Stuart and his stupid girl getting abilities. What the hell was wrong with me that Randy bolted like that?

I slammed down a beer. Then another.

Stuart shooed the girl away like she was some pesky dog trying to hump his leg. I don’t think it was his leg she was interested in, but I figured it was his loss.

If I recall correctly, she was pretty hot, too.

Stuart made me explain exactly what had happened. In detail. When I finished, he drawled, “Dude, that was brutal.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” I was halfway through my third beer, but I didn’t feel anything yet. I downed it as quick as I could.

“Are you okay, man?” Stuart asked me, his hand on my shoulder. I was trembling beneath his touch, “Shit. Are you crying? Broflovski?”

“No!” I yelled, my rage spilling over, “God, I’m not that much of a fag. I wouldn’t cry over that asshole.”

I crossed my arms and glared at him. Stuart wiggled his fingers in the air defensively, “Just checking.”

“You’re a prick,” I told him.

“You know it. Now, come on, buddy. Let’s get you sloshed.”

If I hated Stuart for being a good friend when it came to his concern, I loved him for being a good friend when it came to partying. Before I could protest, he had me downing half a bottle of tequila and singing La Cucaracha in front of half the high school.

I seem to recall getting a rousing applause and calls for an encore at that.

It all gets kind of hazy after.

I can remember the night in flashes and pieces. Stuart, pulling me up to dance on top of the kitchen table to a Hendrix song. His palm was warm and calloused against mine, the contact so familiar, but so strange. Stuart danced like he talked; he didn’t give a fuck who saw him, or what anyone said. He only cared about being totally free.

Anyone watching would have thought he was dropping acid, the way he twisted and waved his limbs. Even then, I wasn’t exactly a champion athlete, and dancing was no different. I probably looked like a chicken with his head cut off, while Stuart looked like a young Greek god.

The best part was, he lent me his courage. It might have been liquid courage, from a man named José , but it still made me brave. I danced, I let a girl take a body shot off my hairy fucking belly button, and I played strip poker with a group of freshmen that had somehow managed to score an invite.

I saw glimpses of Randy when he came back into the party.

He’s a neurotic bastard; always has been. Once he latches onto an idea, it’s like trying to tear a pit-bull away. Point being, he avoided me religiously. Once I saw him doing some version of a groping slow dance with Sharon Kimble, a hippie drug addict junior who spent most of her time skipping class and tripping balls out on the front lawn.

She had long brown hair, and perfect breasts. Randy was enamored with staring straight at them.

I touched my lips and whispered, “Bastard.”

The word was lost in the pounding music.

By the end of the night, Randy was discovered nailing Sharon Kimble in the Tuckers’ basement bathroom. It was considered an extraordinary feat; the tiny room was barely bigger than an airport restroom.

All I could think when I heard was that I hoped he got what he deserved, and what he deserved wasn’t very nice.

Stuart grabbed my arm right after the news was delivered and dragged me out into the night, under the burning stars.

He said, “Fuck that, man. You’re too good for Marsh.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I told him, miserable, “I’ll be in college come fall, and all of this will be a dream.”

Stuart bit his lip, but he didn’t say a thing.


	5. Chasing Dreams That Are Slowing Down For Me

The morning after the graduation party, I had work early.

Too early for my throbbing head and churning stomach.

The Main Street Pie was a New York-style pizzeria owned by a man from Brooklyn named Mike Ferretti. He was a big, burly guy; what my dad called a man’s man. His pizza tasted like a slice of heaven, but he was a demanding boss.

Once the nineties rolled around and old Mike croaked, the pizza joint was sold to the Shakey’s chain. Back then though, it was the only place in town to get an authentic pie, the kind that didn’t taste like cardboard; which is what you got everywhere but the East Coast, according to Big Mike.

Normally, I’d spend the morning opening with Stuart, but he’d wrangled himself an afternoon shift through mysterious powers I’d never understand.

I couldn’t say for sure what exactly Stuart needed a later shift for other than much needed post-drunkenness sleep, but wondering about it kept me entertained through most of my opening routine.

Selling pizza at nine o’clock on a Saturday isn’t exactly a lucrative gig. If anyone felt the need to eat a cheese-bread-tomato sauce concoction that particular Saturday, they probably ate leftovers from the night before rather than drag themselves down to the Pie. I didn’t sell a single slice until twelve, which left me a good three hours to focus on my own turbulent thoughts.

I guess you could say I’m one of those people who enjoys being alone, but that’s only at first glance. If you look closer, you’ll see I have no problem being alone; but only as long as I have a book, a task, music, or anything to keep me busy during that time. And no, the Pie’s dumb static filled elevator music station didn’t count.

I felt like I was going slowly insane.

Things just got better from there. It was midway through twirling dough listlessly around twelve thirty that Randy came in the store. I was anticipating Stuart’s arrival at one. He always knew how to make work less dull.

The bell at the door jingled, and Stuart was wiped from my brain.

Randy had Sharon Kimble hanging off his arm like some kind of shiny new bauble. If grungy could be considered shiny, that is.

Don’t get me wrong. Sharon was a pretty girl. She was just a party girl, and it was easy to tell. The last vestiges of the previous night’s makeup were still crusted to her eyelashes. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair tangled, and her clothes had dirt and grass stains in every wrinkle. She looked some kind of gorgeous.

It was rather annoying, actually.

Randy looked just as good as he had the night before. His face was heartbreakingly familiar, from his cobalt eyes to the strong line of his jaw. I felt so strongly about him that I wanted to duck and hide, just to save myself from his accusing eyes.

What had I done wrong that he ran off? Was kissing me that horrible?

Sharon waltzed up to the counter and ordered a slice and a coke. I obliged, taking her money and asking her if she had fun at the party last night.

I kept my eyes down the whole time, trying not to catch Randy’s gaze.

“Well,” she asserted, “It was like…nirvana, you know?”

“Sure,” I shrugged, because I don’t actually know. She got the guy, and I got the guy running in terror from me, so no, I didn’t count Kevin Tucker’s graduation party as any form of nirvana.

I handed her a warm slice and her bottle of soda, and then turned towards Randy. Still avoiding his stare, I said, “And what can I get you?”

“Nothing,” he replied gruffly.

“Okay then,” I murmured.

He was still leaning against the counter, and I wasn’t sure why, or what he wanted me to do. Sharon found a seat near the front of the store, and got to happily eating her pizza. I’d never seen someone use that much tongue to eat.

She kept stringing the mozzarella around and around, licking and caressing it. It was weirdly hypnotizing.

Randy must be real happy with such a winner, I thought. I’d have bet millions that she gave great head.

After another minute of Randy’s scrutiny, I finally snapped, “Can I help you?”

“No. Not really.”

“Then what do you want?” I exploded, quietly, so I wouldn’t catch Sharon’s attention.

“What makes you think I want anything from you?” he sneered.

“You seemed to last night, until you fucking ran away!” I shot back.

He glanced nervously at Sharon. The sun was hitting her golden hair at just the right angles, and even unwashed, it shone.

“I ran away?” he asked incredulously, “You moaned another guy’s name. Brought me back to reality, that one.”

My eyes widened.

“I did not,” I retorted, indignant. That was the worst excuse to blow someone off I’d ever heard. 

“You did,” he insisted in a hiss.

He glanced at Sharon to make sure she was munching away at her slice again, and she was; she was more interested in the patterns the light made when it hit the glass storefront than our conversation.

“Think about it. Mmm, ohhhh, Stuart,” he mimicked.

I gasped.

Then I paled considerably.

“Shit.”

When Randy and I had kissed, it wasn’t his name I’d said. 

Holy fuck. That would explain the way he bolted like some kind of deer on speed. Kissing someone while thinking of someone else was like high treason.

Except I couldn’t recall thinking of Stuart.

I don’t even know how his name tumbled from my lips.

It was ludicrous. Ridiculous. Unthinkable.

Except it had happened. It had to have happened, because why would Randy make something like that up? 

I put a hand out on the counter to steady myself, “Randy, I swear, I didn’t-“

“Save it, you fucking homo,” Randy muttered back, “Like I even care about your gay little drama.”

“Randy!” my voice got louder, but I didn’t care. I had to make him understand.

“Stop it!” Randy shot back, “Look, I’m not this-not like you, okay? I’m not queer.”

I couldn’t help myself. The hand that was clutching the counter went out to stroke his hand, “I’m not queer. I just like you.”

He eyed me critically, “For a smart guy, Broflovski, you’re pretty dumb.”

I ignored the insult, “The thing with S-s- my friend. It’ll never happen again. Can we just, I don’t know, start over?”

“Are you retarded, or somethin’? I don’t want to start anything with you! If you’re gay for your douchey friend, good for you! Don’t bring your homoerotic fantasies down on my head.”

“Dude, that’s not-“

Randy was seething mad now. His whispered rants were so fast and low that they sounded like steam erupting from a kettle. I could barely make sense of what he was saying, “I want nothing to do with you. Alright? Nothing. Don’t ever speak to me again, or I’ll fucking kill you.”

I was left speechless.

Randy turned around, shoving his hands in his letterman. He stalked over to Sharon, grabbed her by the arm, and led her from the Pie.

“Great. That went well,” I told the empty store. I kicked the cupboard beneath the counter, but it didn’t make me feel any better.

I spent the next half hour berating myself for being a complete and total jackass. I hadn’t even realized that I’d said Stuart’s name; of course I hadn’t known that’s what had set Randy off. If I had, I would have run after him, and maybe things would have turned out a lot differently.

I thought about going after him now, but mental images of him and Sharon getting hot and sweaty in the back of his car deterred me. No way did I want to walk in on that; it would be equal parts life scarring and heart wrenching. Anyway, I had important things to think about, like why the fucking hell did I say Stuart’s name?

It’s not like he was in my head. At all.

I know what you’re thinking; subconscious desires and all that. No. Truth was, it was some kind of sick, twisted Freudian slip. I mean, I was best friends with the guy, but as a person, I could completely admit to not liking him much. He was crude, inappropriate, did filthy things with girls- and I guarantee they’re not the things you’re thinking, swore like some kind of sailor, slacked off in class, and God, his room smelled like some kind of football locker room. He liked to putz around with cars and constantly had oil stains on his jeans, and partied about three times as often as anyone else in school.

He wasn’t exactly ideal crush material, even if you set aside the fact that he was my best friend. And a guy. Although Randy was a guy, and I guess I’d sort of come to terms with that part of me that thought washboard abs and a tight ass were sexier than hips and legs and breasts.

It was while I was enveloped in this train of thought that Stuart walked in.

And okay, maybe he was attractive, in his grungy, stained jeans, and his Pie t-shirt. He was taller than me, but skinnier. Lanky. He had this languid way of walking that all the girls thought was cool, and a full morning’s stubble was sprouting on his chin. It was sandy blonde and leonine.

“Dude,” he saw me staring, “Do I have something on my face?”

“You forgot to shave again,” I told him, because Big Mike had a policy about facial hair.

“Shit,” Stuart muttered, fingering his chin, “I overslept. Woke up with some girl in my room. Had to sneak her out before dad near had a fit.”

“I didn’t know you took a girl home,” I replied, but my words felt stunted. Like he could see. Like he might know.

I had to tell him. There was little I didn’t tell Stuart. But it was awkward, and embarrassing, and I didn’t know what to do.

“Not really sure how it happened,” he replied easily, “Think I found her passed out on my lawn. That party’s going to have epic repercussions, man.”

“You think?”

“Come on, Brof. It was our last hurrah. That was the last time we’re ever going to see any of those bastards, like Kevin Tucker,” he rubbed his chin again, “Or Randy Marsh.”

“Um. Actually, Randy came in a little while ago. He brought Sharon Kimble.”

“That stoner. You know, I think I fucked her once.”

“I…really didn’t need to know that.”

“Oh, come on. I was joking, Brof,” Stuart perched on the counter beside me, watching as I methodically began creating a cheese pizza pie.

My hands were shaking.

He grabbed my wrist, “What did that asshole say?”

“What?”

“Randy. You’re trembling like a fuckin’ leaf. He said something, didn’t he? I’ll kick his ass,” Stuart declared.

I glanced up at him, his eyes a patch of blue sky; clear and too kind for his own good.

It made me angry.

“He didn’t say anything,” I snapped, pulling my wrist back, “Just leave it, okay?”

“Brof.” He frowned. I rarely yelled at him. He couldn’t figure out what he’d done wrong.

“I’m just saying, I’m a guy, you know. I don’t need you to protect me,” I spat, “Especially from Randy Marsh!”

“Alright, now I’m convinced something happened,” Stuart declared, jumping off the counter. He took hold of my arm again, and this time his grip was ironclad, “Spill the beans, Gerald.”

Hated first name usage always got my attention.

I deflated, “It’s nothing. Really.”

“You’re seriously a shitty liar.”

I saw red. “Okay. Fine. You really want to know?”

He nodded.

I cocked my head to the side, and looking straight at him, said, “I moaned your name when I was kissing him.”


	6. You Sure Do Make It Kind Of Tough

Stuart’s first reaction wasn’t what I expected.

“Elaborate the word moaned.”

“I said your name.”

“That’s not what _moaned_ means. Saying my name and moaning it are completely different. Let me show you. Stuart. That’s saying it. Stu-u- _uart_. That’s moaning it,” he finished all breathless, his pupils wide.

“Why are you not more freaked out by this?” I wondered aloud, staring at him.

He ran a hand through his shaggy, salt and pepper blond hair and grinned.

“Why would I be freaked out? It’s kind of flattering, if you think about it.”

“What part of it is flattering?” I demanded, indignant.

I couldn’t believe he was so nonchalant about the entire thing! Didn’t he realize that it was all because of what I’d said that Randy freaked?

“Brof,” Stuart lowered his head so he was eye level with me, palms flat on the counter. “I think it’s sweet that you like me.”

I sputtered inhuman-like sounds of disbelief, eventually finding the words I needed. “I do not like you, Stuart! You freak!”

“No need to get tetchy.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m joking.”

“Really?”

“Mostly,” he laughed, “So you moaned my name and-“           

“Said.”

"What?”

“I said your name.”

“Nope, you said moaned.”

“Yeah, and I was sticking with that until you gave me your lovely demonstration. No way to did I go Stu-u-uart,” I mimicked his earlier show-and-tell. 

He took a step towards me, “That was kind of hot.”

“Stuart,” I groaned. “Seriously, can we stop with the jokes? This is a problem! I don’t know how to get Randy to forgive me.”

“Why do you even need his forgiveness? He’s a jerk.”

And I hadn’t even told him about the names Randy had called me when he left the shop.

“Look, you don’t like him. I get that, dude. But Randy makes me feel…” I trailed off, lost for words.

I didn’t know how to tell Stuart that Randy just made me happy. I didn’t want to risk sounding like a girl, because back then, it was even more of a kiss of death than it is today.

“Yeah, I get it,” Stuart rolled his eyes, his voice gruff. “He makes you feel like the world’s full of unicorns and rainbows, or somethin’.”

“No. There are no unicorns,” I shook my head vehemently. “And no rainbows. Abraham, you make me sound so homosexual.”

“Brof, it is a little gay. And by a little, I mean massively. How do you know you’re not going to go to some party and kiss a chick and forget all about Randy Marsh?”

“That won’t happen.”

“And if it does?”

“It won’t.”

“Prove it. Come to my house tonight. Make out with a girl. A real life tits-and-ass babe.”

“That’s vulgar.”

“I’m a vulgar guy.” Stuart’s icy eyes bored into mine.

He was so intense. He’d been that way for all the time I’d known him. I think it was part of what girls found so attractive about him.

Maybe it was part of what drew me to him too, as a friend. All my life, I’d been labeled the smart one, the one who was going places. I never thought ambition was good for anything but getting the grade.

Then I met Stuart. He had a lot of drive, but he used it all for things that would have given my mother a heart attack. Drinking and womanizing were his forte.

“Necking some girl isn’t going to change my mind.”

“Will it give you a boner?”

“Stuart!” I exclaimed, feeling a blush creep up on my cheeks.

It wasn’t a good look with my hair, which had an auburn tinge the fluorescent lights really brought out.

“What?” he asked, raising his hands in a ‘don’t shoot’ gesture. “As your best, most handsome, and most important friend, I feel entitled to ask. Do chicks still make you hard, Brof?”

I glared furiously down at my feet. I couldn’t believe he was asking me that with such a straight face!

I mean, under normal circumstances, a question like that wouldn’t be received with such shock, because we were-and still are at heart, I might mention- boys, and boys tend to lean towards the disgusting body-fluids-and-farts-facts-of-life side.

What really bugged me about it was that it that he was questioning my masculinity.

“I’m still me,” I replied angrily. “Of course I like…you know.”

“Okay.” Stuart shrugged, his smile as easy as it had always been. “Just checking. It would be okay, you know. If you…didn’t.”

“You mean if I was a fucking pansy? Screw that, Stuart. It’s only Randy.”

“Only him?” He ventured, his eyes narrowing.

I felt like I’d said the wrong thing, but I couldn’t pinpoint what that thing was.

“Of course,” I snapped, not liking being under so much scrutiny, “Go…make pizza, or something.”

“Chill, Brof.”

He was quiet for a second, and I could feel his eyes on me as I emptied a container of marinara into a more accessible jar.

“But are you going to take me up on my T and A girl? I know a great one. I met her at some barn dance a month or so ago. She likes your type.”

“My type?”

He studied me. I wasn’t used to so much attention. “You know. Geeks.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“That was sarcasm.”

“Really, I hadn’t noticed.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“You’re a coward,” Stuart countered. “Come. Tonight. We’ll test you out.”

“Why are you so worried about this?”

“I don’t want your soul mate or whatever to be Randy Marsh. The guy’s bad news.”

“More so than you?”

“Hey! Your mom loves me.”

“My mom thinks you’re a good little Baptist boy who goes to church every Sunday.”

“I do go to church every Sunday, Brof.” Stuart grinned.

“Yeah, to make out with Linda Ryan behind the rectory.”

Linda gets around.

“I’m still near the building,” he retorted. “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“Sure,” I agreed. “But afterwards, you’ve got to drop this and accept that I like Randy.”

“Whether you like it or not?”

I grimaced.

I still liked girls. The thought that I didn’t-well, I couldn’t say it hadn’t crossed my mind, but I was pretty certain I did. I still jerked off with the porn mags my dad thought he’d hidden, and they worked just fine. That legs-boobs-butt combination was attractive.

Just…maybe not as attractive as Randy Marsh.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. But what are you going to do if Randy and Sharon stick together? You’ve thought of that, right?”

I felt like swallowing acid. Yeah, I’d thought of that. 

“Stuart,” I warned. “We’ll get to that when we get to it.”

“I just don’t want him to hurt you, Brof.”

“I know,” I said.

Then I decided that cleaning the oregano shakers would be an ideal way to end the most awkward conversation of my life.

Little did I know that going to Stuart’s house that night would set everything in motion.


	7. You Told Me Just What I Had To Live For

I didn’t know what to expect that night, walking into Stuart’s empty living room.

Well, sure, I knew to expect the threadbare brown carpet and the orange and yellow wallpaper hung with a zillion family portraits. I’d been there countless times, and knew the lay of the land like it was my own living room.

What I didn’t know was what my best friend had in store.

What kind of girl would be waiting for me? It plagued my mind even as I sat through dinner with my family.

A girl. A flesh and blood female.

Not to sound completely lame, but up until then my experience with girls was limited to drunken fumbling at parties and the occasional shy kiss on real dates.

I wasn’t like Stuart; a ladies’ man. Mostly I rode on his coattails and picked up the leftovers when they came along.

I knew that’s why Stuart worried that I was mistaking what I felt for Randy. He thought that I just hadn’t gotten enough real life practice.

He wasn’t wrong about that last bit. But what I was going through with Randy was unrelated. I knew that even if I’d had women falling over me left and right, my thing for the football player wasn’t going to disappear.

Still, I was excited. It had been a while since I’d gotten to make time with a girl, and even if I doubted it was going to be the revelation-filled experience Stuart thought it might be, I wasn’t going to object to a rebound hookup.

Not that I was rebounding from Randy.

No, rebounding implied I was ready to give up.

The point being; I was excited. A little harmless fun sounded right up my alley. And it would definitely be fun.

The girls who went to our town’s barn dances were usually on the looser side, and the girls who Stuart knew were usually on the whorish side. She was sure to be both, although...I was hoping against hope that he’d picked out someone more my type.

I’d always liked funny, pretty girls with minds of their own.

Which is why I ended up being surprised when I let myself into Stuart’s house to find…darkness.

No one locks their door in South Park, even today, but back then it was an unheard of practice. We were the quietest little mountain town to have ever not made it on the map.

I digress. Stuart’s house; dark, except for a soft golden glow from the living room.

I supposed he was setting the mood or something, and that when I walked in I’d find my new lady friend stretched out on the sofa like the Queen of Sheba. 

Instead I got Stuart, languishing on the floor with an unlit joint in one hand and an unopened beer in the other. He looked like he was torn between deciding on the lesser of the two evils.

When he saw me, he popped the beer bottle with a handy opener set into his belt buckle and swiftly chugged half of it like he needed liquid courage.

I waved a hand at him and settled myself beside him, leaning my back against the couch and studying the wall in front of us like it might reveal a secret or two.

He offered me the rest of his beer, but I declined.

“So?” I prompted, fiddling with the bottle cap he’d discarded.

“So.” He drew out the word, making it sound like ‘sooooo’ with that affected drawl of his. The accent stood out when he got nervous, turning him from a boyish Baptist into a full grown hick.

“Where’s the girl?”

“Girl?”

“The mystery barn dance girl. The reason you made me come?” I glanced at him, and his expression was blank.

Just to check, I leaned in, sniffing his breath.

Nope. He didn’t smell like a brewery quite yet. That beer must have been the only one.

Stuart had the sense to look offended, inclining his head away from me and giving me a dirty glare.

I crossed my arms and glared right on back. It wasn’t my fault Stuart had a reputation for drinking and forgetting sometimes.

“There is no girl.” He shook his head and gave me this look, like he couldn’t believe what an idiot I was. “I mean, there could be a girl, I guess. I can call one up right now, but I don’t know what that would prove.”

I was lost. No part of that made any sense to me, except the calling a girl part, which is what he should have done, oh, an hour prior.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

My friend tilted his head so that the lamp light hit his sandy blond hair, turning it pale gold. “Brof, you still jerk off thinking about chicks?”

I felt my cheeks color, but I gave him a slow, resentful nod.

“Then you like girls. Girls and Randy Marsh. Experiment concluded.”

I opened my mouth. “But-“

He held up a hand, and whatever else I’d been planning to say fell short. “The next experiment is crucial, dude. We know you like girls, but we have no idea if you like other guys.”

“I-I-no!” I stuttered, aghast. It hadn’t occurred to me that could even be an option in Stuart’s mind.

I mean, aside from the ick-factor of even considering a guy other than Randy, a guy with chest hair and side burns and that overly confident mojo all us men seemed to have back then, the guys in South Park weren’t exactly prizes. Growing up country hadn’t done a lot of us any good, at all.

“Dude, breathe. You look like you just swallowed a frog.”

I took his advice and tried to reconcile air and my lungs, but most of my mind was focused on purging Stuart of whatever ludicrous plan he was hatching.

“I don’t like other guys, Stuart.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do, alright,” I insisted, appealing to him with the best pout I knew how to make. It didn’t seem to be working.

“Do you masturbate thinking about other guys? James Bond?” Stuart guessed.

“Sick! Who masturbates thinking of James Bond?”

Stuart lowered his head, something like embarrassment flashing over his face.

“Seriously?” I intoned.

“No. You are one twisted fuck, Brof.” He glanced up, and I could see light dancing in his sky blue eyes.

He was laughing at me, even if it wasn’t out loud.

Teasing made me grumpy, and for a few minutes I stayed silent and let Stuart ply me with jokes and puppy dog eyes until I decided it was safe to speak again.

“So if there's no girl, why did you make me come here? You’re not going to make me do anything weird, are you?”

I said ‘make me’ because Stuart McCormick knew it well; he could make me do anything.

Having him as a best friend had been the biggest boon my life had to offer.

When he’d moved to South Park at age six, just down the street from my house, I hadn’t wanted anything to do with him. There weren’t many kids my age on the street I lived at, but I had Stark's Pond to skate on every day other than the one the snow melted on, and school to occupy my time at that. I’d only just started, and it was still fun to learn my times tables and vocabulary. I had friends at school, too, though they were mostly casual.

I’d known the same people my entire life, and most of the fun had gone out of watching Liane Cartman letting anyone with a nickel touch her boobs and building derby cars with Ryan Vulmer. I was resigned to knowing these people forever, but even at six the feeling of wanting out was slowly creeping up on me.

Then Stuart came.

His mother wore a pretty, spotless white dress and his dad had a trucker’s hat on the day they moved in.

My parents went to greet them, because they were good neighbors and that’s what they did; pot roast in tow.

Stuart was hiding behind his mother’s skirts, eating a chocolate bar that made his hands and face grimy and dark. He grinned at me with chunks of it in his teeth, and I’d known from the get-go that I didn’t like the filthy little boy.

I didn’t like him even more when my mom told his mom that he was ‘lovely’. My mother was a great woman, but she didn’t give praise easily, and I hadn’t received any for days. I was jealous that Stuart was worthy of it when I wasn’t.

Then, about a month after he’d joined our first grade class, he’d punched Stephen Stotch in the face for calling me ‘dumbo’.

I hadn’t been crying, but I’d been silently fuming, clenching my fists and wishing I could do something without getting in trouble. I hated getting in trouble; my parents always got so disappointed. So I stood there, bearing the insult because it was all I could do.

Stuart walked up behind Richard, tapped him on the shoulder, and socked him with a passionate cry of, “Leave Brofl’ski alone!”

I’d decided to give him a try right then, despite his dirty fingernails. We’d been fast friends ever since.

I never regretted it for a minute. 

“Brof, relax.” Stuart gave me this slow grin that made me wonder if maybe he hadn’t lit up before I’d come, despite the whole, untouched spliff lying on the floor. “You worry too much.”

He bumped my shoulder with his, and I laughed, despite myself. “Well, are you going to tell me how we're going to test your theory, or is it top secret?”

Stuart grinned, but it looked more rueful than anything else. “You might want to keep it private and confidential from everyone else.”

“Sounds like fun?”

He bit his lip, which was the most un-Stuart-like gesture I’d ever seen and murmured, “I hope so.”

I had to lean in to catch the words, which I guess was what he’d intended.

He turned to face me, and our noses were barely inches apart. I had a second to register that I should pull back, because I was a little closer in Stuart’s personal bubble than I’d ever been before.

I would have, too, except his hands, formerly planted firmly on the brown carpet came up to clutch the back of my neck. Goosebumps ran down my spine at the touch and he pulled me closer, so that our noses were touching.

“Are you ready?” he breathed, and his voice sounded a little huskier than usual.

I was confused beyond belief as I queried, “Ready for what-?”

The ‘what’ came out as a yelp, drowned by Stuart’s lips.


	8. Just A Casual, Casual Easy Thing

I drew back from the kiss immediately, my face red as hell and my heart pounding.

No girl had ever made me feel so off-kilter.

My voice was shaky, but cold as ice as I demanded, “What do you think you’re doing?”

I was torn between the weirdness of having just been kissed by my best friend and thinking that he was playing the cruelest joke in the world on me.

“C’mon now, darlin’,” Stuart said, playing up his Southern drawl to the max. “I know you’ve been kissed before.”

“I-no, what?” I went to shove his shoulder, but thought better of it and drew my hand away. “What just happened, dude?”

He sighed, carding his fingers through his sandy hair and looking at me with something akin to pity. “If I knew you were going to act like a fish outta water, all floppin’ around and gaspin’ for air, I would’a done this experiment out by the Pond. Let you get back to yer elements.”

“Stuart, I’m fucking serious!” I nearly screamed.

“Calm down, Brof. Breathe. Seriously.”

“I am breathing,” I choked out, even though I was pretty much hyperventilating at that point.

“Not very well,” he noted. “Look. Calm the fuck down. And for pity’s sake, would you frickin’ meet my eyes? I ain’t got laser beams up here or nothin’.”

It occurred to me that maybe his accent wasn’t affected right about now. That maybe he was more nervous than he was showing.

My fingers darted out, grabbing hold of his wrist before I could talk myself out of it.

He glanced up at me sharply, shocked, but I was more absorbed by his skin. Beneath the flesh of his wrist, his pulse was racing, thrumming hard.

Score one for me. I made Stuart McCormick nervous.

Except that was the last thing I wanted. We were best friends.

I met his eyes, blue as a mid-October sky. It made my skin tingle in a way I’d never experienced before.

I didn’t like it one bit.

“Explain,” I prompted faintly, because I couldn’t do anything else.

Bolting would have been ideal, but it would have shattered our friendship. I was sure of it. If Stuart was somehow sincere about…about kissing me, about wanting me, even though he had yet to make any indication of it, I needed to stay. I needed to make sure that leaving wouldn’t take away the best thing I had going in my life; having him as a friend.

“Fine,” he huffed. “I still think you’d process things better if you stopped lookin’ all wild eyed an’ shit.”

“I’d process things better if you stopped talking like you stepped out of the Louisiana bayou, thanks,” I shot back.

Stuart straightened, reddening a little.

I was right; he hadn’t even known he’d been doing it.

I’d thought his accent was mostly a thing of the past, erased by years of living in South Park and assimilating our speech patterns and our behavior. I’d thought he only got Southern on us when he wanted to piss us all off. 

Apparently I was wrong.

It didn’t sit too well with me.

“Fine,” he said, all normal-like. “You take all the fun out of everything, you know that?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve been told.” I inclined my head, motioning for him to talk fast.

“I told you- this all was an experiment.”

“Kissing me? That’s your big science project?”         

“I never said it was a particularly noble experiment.” He scratched his chin, reminding me that the day old scruff growing there had brushed up against my face only minutes ago. I shifted uncomfortably. “But it served its purpose.”

“Which was what?”

“Isn’t that obvious, Brof? To see if you’d kiss me back!”

"To check if I'm, what, gay? Or, into guys and girls?" I puzzled over it, twisting it around in my head. "Stuart, even if I was...what you think I am, that doesn't mean I'd ever want to kiss you."

"Well, you did," he retorted triumphantly, almost manic with it. "You did, and you liked it, and I wanted you to."

“I-uh-why would you want me to kiss you?”

“You’re denser than a sack of bricks,” he muttered. “And contrary to popular belief, ignorance isn’t cute, not even in girls.”

“You always go for the dumb ones.”

“That’s ‘cause the dumb ones always spread their legs. God, Brof. Get with it, already. I kissed you because I like you- and don’t you dare ask me if I like you as a friend or as something more, ‘cause you’re not that stupid.”

I kind of wished I was. Sounding things out was how I sorted what I felt. Stuart had basically just cut off that path for me. Thing is, when I just thought without speaking it out loud, I always made idiotic mistakes. Always.

“How- uh, how long have you felt this way?” my voice got all squeaky and cracked, like I was still going through puberty. It was beyond embarrassing.

“It matter?”

“I think so.”        

“Year. Maybe more.”

“That long?”

“Didn’t think I had much of a chance ‘til you got all googly eyed over Marsh.”

Stuart narrowed his eyes at me, lamplight reflected in his pupils. I felt like a dick; I’d spent all this time telling Stuart how Randy was the one for me when he’d been…lusting after me? I didn’t know quite what to call it yet, but I knew I’d abused our relationship in that respect, flaunting the fact that I’d loved someone else.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be. You’re kinda cute when you’re like that.” Stuart ducks his head and sighs. “Marsh is an asshole. Ruined that for me.”

“What, you wanted Randy and me to get together?”

“That’s a big hell no. If you’d started dating that prick I might’ve done everything in my power to sabotage it,” he admits, no shame for the confession evident on his face. “I just hoped he might last a little longer. Let me work up some courage before I did all this.”

“This?”

“My experiment,” he said proudly.

“Kissing me?”

“That’s just phase one, here, Brof.”

I frowned. “Well then what’s phase two?”

“I’ve got a proposition for you.”

“I really don’t like the sound of that.”

“I reckoned you wouldn’t.” Stuart laughed, familiar and boyish, and for a second I remembered the feel of his lips on mine. “Here it is. Date me.”

“That’s your proposition? What if I say no?” I demanded, and I couldn’t help but crack a smile.

I couldn’t believe I was talking to Stuart about dating him in the middle of his living room, the place where his family watched TV and ate frozen dinners every night.

“It’s non-optional, well; if you hear the rest of it.”

“I’m listening.”

“Was kissing me gross?”

“That’s the rest of it?”

“Stop being a dick and answer the question.”

I thought about it, mulling it over and over again.

The kiss hadn’t been disgusting, which maybe should have been my first clue. Kissing you best friend, that’s supposed to be the kind of thing that makes you gag, even thinking about it. And I’d never thought about it, but it hadn’t…it had been kind of nice, actually.

“No.”

“Alright. Would you object to doing again?”

“Yes, obviously.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re you, Stuart.”

“And what difference does that make?”

"You’re like- like a brother to me, or something.”

“Well that isn’t a good reason at all.” He scowled at me, his blue eyes bright. “Look. You like guys. I know you said you weren’t sure, but you didn’t mind kissing me. Maybe you’re hung up on Marsh, but that’s going nowhere. Give me a chance. ‘Til the end of summer, give me a chance to see if we could-“

“Fall in love?” I suggested, sneering.

“Well I wasn’t going to make it sound so faggy, but sure.”

I stared at him, long and hard.

It was a ridiculous idea.

I mean, it was Stuart. With his stupid jokes and his lust for girls and his total abandonment of inhibitions ninety percent of the time. Even if he’d been a girl, I didn’t think I could put up with that in a partner.

“I don’t think it would work.”

“Why not?”

“I just- Stuart, you can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

He crawled over to me on his hands and knees, resting his fingers on my inner thighs. I stiffened as he reached up, like a dog licking its owner, and kissed me so chaste and light that I barely felt it. It was the brush of a butterfly wing, of a summer breeze, and then it was gone.

I kind of wanted it back.

He must have noticed the way I was leaning in to him, because he smiled and said, “I’m so serious, Brof. I want to be with you. Even for a little while.”

“You’re so fucking queer.”

“Speak for yourself, fairy boy.”

“I’m not saying yes.”

He grinned, threading his hand through my hair. When I didn’t flinch away, he promised, “We’ll take it slow.”

“I said I’m not saying yes,” I insisted, hating that he was ignoring everything I said.

“Yes you are.”

He kissed me again.

It was kind of hard to argue with that.


	9. Lived Like A Fool

Let me tell you a thing or two about the girls Stuart McCormick dated.

They were dumb. And when I say dumb, I don’t mean mute.

Wouldn’t that have been a blessing? In high school I came close to committing suicide several times just because one of his cheese-grating voiced girlfriends happened to be in the vicinity. These girls, god. They were ridiculous. Complete morons. Obnoxious voices and annoying habits. There was one who used to pick her nose in public.

Stuart didn’t mind having idiots for girlfriends, because he only used them for one thing and one thing only. Sex.

“It’s not all about sex, Brof,” Stuart informed me about a week following his proposition.

I frowned, extending my hand to his forehead just so I could check his temperature. He swatted me away, “Very funny.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be,” I replied, incredulous. “How can it not be about sex, man? Everything you do is about sex.”

He grinned and pushed shaggy hair out of his eyes, “Tch, yeah. But with you, it’s not.”

This conversation was preempted by me demanding when Stuart was going to attempt to start worming his way into my pants. Because really, if he wanted to date me, the next logical step was expecting him to jump my bones.

I was kind of insulted when he told me that wasn’t how our relationship was going to work.

Was I supposed to be insulted? Did he not find me attractive enough to fuck?

If that was the truth, why go through this whole charade of convincing me we needed to try dating?

I mean, I was the sole person in a long string of women with curvy hips and luscious breasts that Stuart had pounded into that he didn’t want to get sweaty and horizontal with. Either he was being nauseatingly saccharine or I had some kind of appalling body odor. It was simple math.

Plus, I was male. It didn’t take a rocket scientist for me to get that Stuart was not going to sweetly seduce me like he would a chick. I already knew all his tricks.

“If it’s not about sex, then what the hell are we doing?”

“Why Brof, I didn’t know you were that eager to see me naked.” He grinned cheekily at my fury. He could be so very irritating at times like those.

“Stuart,” I gritted out in warning.

We were at work, right after the lunch rush, and people were only trickling in at sporadic intervals. We’d opted to play a game of Texas Hold ‘Em that devolved quickly when we realized we had nothing to bet but slices of pepperoni.

Both of us had barreled through our most recent paychecks with lightning speed, the way you do when you’re young and you feel invincible.

“Okay, fine, have it your way,” he pouted a little, the way girls used to do when we stole their cookies in third grade, “We can have sex, right fuckin’ now.”

His hand crept up my thigh, fingers jutting into my skin in a way that wasn’t funny.

“Dude.” I swatted his hand away. “No.”

“Brof, you’re givin’ me mixed signals here.” He chewed his lip and stared at the cards and his stack of pepperoni, obviously more entranced by the game than by our conversation.

It was all a huge joke to him.

We hadn’t kissed, not even once, since the night he initiated his experiment.

Out of the blue, I was constantly feeling off kilter when Stuart was by my side, but he was always seemingly fine.

I didn’t like that something so big could disrupt the entire way I viewed the world, but Stuart didn’t even care. I guess part of me still thought his proposal was a joke.

“I’m giving you- what? No!” My voice cracked a little as I slammed my hands down on the tabletop. “This is ludicrous. I have no idea what you want, and it’s bugging the hell outta me.”

“God, Brof. Stop acting like a girl.”

“Stuart!”

“Okay,” he chuckled, and I knew he’d been stringing me along throughout this entire conversation.

He pushed his pile of pepperoni aside and took hold of my hand. For a second, I saw indecision cross his face, like he was deliberating whether or not it would be okay to intertwine our fingers.

He didn’t. Instead, Stuart said, “I’m taking you on a date.”

“A…date?”

“Yeah, you know. It’s what all the hip young kids go on when they want to spend time alone, away from their parents. Or at least that’s what I’ve been told.”

“Ha ha, very funny.”

“I thought so.” He inclined his head to the side. “So what do you say? You, me, a garage band in North Park?”

 “That’s your idea of a date?”

“I’m sorry, did you want dinner and a movie?” He sounded mildly annoyed.

That’s when I knew that whether he’d been stringing me along or not, he’d actually put some thought into this whole ‘date’ thing.

“No- you know what? A garage band sounds great.”

I was over-thinking things; a family trait.

All I’d wanted was one last summer of glory with my friend. Now I had this; this thing where I had to flesh out what being in a relationship with Stuart might mean.

We were going on a date, and soon, and I just wanted to pretend that it was a strictly friends thing.

I felt guilty that the only date I really wanted to go on was with Randy, but he had Sharon. Sharon with her sloe eyes and her pink lips and her clumpy mascara.

I wasn’t going to think about that. I was going to concentrate on Stuart; on the way he brightened when I told him I would go.

“You won’t regret this, Brof,” he swore up and down.

I didn’t believe him.

* * *

 

Less than ten hours later, I was tromping through the occasional patch of snow that always lingers in Park County summers.

I’d had to beg my mother to let me go out, claiming that Stuart and I were catching a movie at the multi-plex.

She was suffering from some kind of pre-empty nest syndrome, like she’d just realized that come fall I’d be leaving for good. The path to her agreement had been dicey, but eventually she relented; even so, I had a curfew.

Stuart pulled me along by the crook of my elbow, guiding me through fields of trampled grass and sections of trees that had been partially deforested by our then-thriving logging community.

We were headed for the most heavily wooded part of North Park. The band was playing a campsite in the woods off the highway, a place I thought secluded and serene until the screech of fingers playing across an axe broke the silence.

I couldn’t believe how fast the guitarist’s fingers moved; the closer we got to the concert, the more it felt like we were leaving the mundane reality of our small town for something bigger, better, and nine times more frenetic.

The vast majority of the crowd were men, wearing sweaty leather and grungy shirts, all huge, broad shoulders and burly thighs. Standing next to some of them made even Stuart look insignificant, and he had at least an inch on me.

There were women in the throng too; they had too much eyeliner and stringy hair, and most of them were backed up against guys twice their side, like this whole musical extravaganza was just a precursor to sex.

For a split second I wondered if maybe that wasn’t what Stuart had in mind.

The thought fell away as we wove in and out of the crowd.

When we found a place to stand, near a fire at the outskirts of the crowd, I let the music swell over me.

This didn’t feel like a date, not at all. It felt like screamed lyrics and half glimpsed snatches of a world that wasn’t entirely ours.

We’d played with the idea of rock and roll, like most kids our age. We wrote song verses on my comforter and sketched anarchy symbols on our ratty jeans, but this was the first honest to god concert I’d ever gone to outside the time my dad dragged me to some country arena gig.

I wasn’t sure about Stuart; I knew he’d dated groupies, but I wasn’t sure if he’d had the honor of being one himself.

I could imagine for a moment him trekking all over the country, following Hendrix with pupils blown wide, like standing beside a star might make him one himself. But that was silly. Stuart hadn't left Colorado since his family moved up. 

The singer on stage howled like an injured timber wolf, his chest bare and vulnerable and trickling with the salty sheen of perspiration. The audience howled back, their breaths the mingled smells of pot and alcohol and stale corn chips.

“This is great,” Stuart yelled into my ear, thrashing his head back and forth so that his long hair flew frantically in the air.

I took a step back to avoid getting my teeth bashed in.

It _was_ great though, drowning in the thundering music, knowing that there in the woods we were isolated but for all these leather bound people.

Somehow it made us special. It made us _unconquerable_.

At the same time, I wasn’t sure whether or not to give into the invincibility. This wasn’t the kind of freedom I was usually allowed; it wasn’t something my mother would understand.

I guilted myself into feeling awkward and out of place. I wasn’t sure what to do then, or how to move to show that I understood the songs reverberating around me. I couldn’t get back to the safety of drowning, and I was convinced the other people at the concert were watching, judging me, knowing that I was a stranger.

That my being there was wrong.

I was nodding my head to the beat, but the movement was imperceptible. It must have looked so jerky and foreign, like a robot was dancing in my place. 

Stuart was my anchor.

He caught my distress. The second the band launched into a slower paced tune he grabbed my elbow. “Relax. You look like your mom’s going to walk up and catch you practicing Satanism or something.”

He could always read me.

“Easy for you to say.”

I frowned, wishing I knew how to be as adaptable as he was. Wishing I was less scared of getting caught, not just at this raucous concert, but on a date with my best friend that didn’t even feel real.

“It _is_ easy, Brof.” He chuckled in my ear, breath tickling, and suddenly everything flashed into perspective. “This isn’t a test. No one’s judging you on your- fuck, I don’t know. Dancing abilities? This ain’t a ballroom.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Stuart clapped a hand over my mouth and winked.

The warmth on my lips made heat pool in my stomach and Randy Marsh became I name I couldn’t recall.

Stuart started swaying ever so slightly, and then, when he realized I was hypnotized by the movement and the light of the flames flickering over his features, he let his hand fall from my mouth. Stuart wrapped me up in his arms, aligning his hips and thighs with mine as we swayed; together, this time.

I didn’t know if anyone was watching; and now I didn’t care.

Everything shifted, or maybe it was just my perception. The music floated over my head and the bonfire crackled and the stars seemed clearer than they’ve ever been.

Between the sky and the trees and so many angry, thrashing men, Stuart laced his hand with mine where our hips were connected.

That night has stayed with me forever since. It was the night I began to understand…

It wasn’t a game.


	10. We Thought The Weight Of The World Would Have Us Sinking Like A Stone

Sometimes, you think you’re heading in one direction, and life throws you a curveball. By the time the dust clears, you realize you’re on a path that’s completely opposite the way you’ve been going.

Once you’re there, you have a choice. Leave the opportunity behind, go back your original way, or realize the truth.

It’s a lie though. You can never go back. Not really.

That’s what it was like dating Stuart. I thought that we’d be friends til we were old men, rocking on chairs in a town far away from this one, trading jokes and jibes and memories like they were wares for barter, each more precious than the rest.

Instead, I started dating him and blew everything to hell.

I lost him; it was the one thing I feared most, and the one thing I refused to believe would ever happen.

Because being with Stuart was kind of amazing.

I knew him as my best friend, as the kid I spent hours discussing the merits of beer versus grain liquor, of Star Wars versus everything else.

For me, Stuart was always fierce, opinionated, vulgar, independent, and wild. That was my friend.

I _didn’t_ know who this ‘boyfriend’ person could be, and the more I found out, the more invested I became. The vulnerability he never would have shown me, the secret dreams and fears; these were the things that drew me in.

These were the things that terrified me the most.

In retaliation for the concert, I decided I owed Stuart a date. My family was always big on reciprocity, and even though Stuart insisted it wasn’t necessary to treat him like a girl, I put my foot down.

Unlike our friendship, where I never forced Stuart to take part in things that weren’t shared interests, I wanted our relationship to be on equal footing.

If I had to date my best friend, I wanted him at least to see what he was getting into.

I would have done the same for Randy, if I’d ever gotten the chance.

“Brof, enough with the secrecy, already. We’ve been driving for hours.”

“We’ve been in the car for like, twenty minutes,” I chided, completely aware of Stuart’s insatiable curiosity when it came to mysteries.

He was a lot like me in that way; he couldn’t stand not _knowing_.

“Brof,” he whined, inching a hand over to my thigh and squeezing, running one finger along the inseam of my jeans. It was the most he’d touched me since the concert, and it made me acutely uncomfortable.

“Stop that.”

“Dude, you need to chill out.” Stuart withdrew his hand, which was something of a relief. “I’ve heard stress can make your head explode.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Kevin Tucker.”

“Kevin’s a moron,” I replied.

“That might be true,” Stuart conceded, winding his hand in my hair instead. “But I’m really, really fond of your head.”

Without warning, he drew my face towards his for the first time since his damned experiment began.

Our lips came _this_ close to touching when a blaring horn startled us apart. I was veering right into the path of an eighteen wheeler, the headlights bearing down on us brighter than anything I’d ever seen.

“Shit!” I swerved right, narrowly avoiding a head on collision.

Stuart was cracking up.

“What the _fuck_ do you think is so funny?”

“The look on your face right now, for one.”

“We nearly died!” My voice hiked up an octave, close to breaking.

“Yeah,” Stuart admitted. “But wouldn’t that have been the _best_ way to die?”

He wiggled his eyebrows at me.

“I hate you. I hate you so, so much. I have half a mind to drive back to South Park right this minute.”

Suddenly he was all puppy dog eyes and apologies. “No, no, I’m sorry man. I promise I won’t do it again. Really. Scout’s honor.”

I crossed my arms, refusing to be mollified.

“Brof.” Stuart unbuckled his seat belt, shifting his body so that he was completely facing me. “I’m sorry. Promise.”

“Okay,” I groaned. “But if you ever do that again, I will not hesitate to kick you out and let you hitchhike back home.”

He grinned, amused as I’d ever seen him. “Yessir.”

He was considerably less amused when I pulled into the parking lot of the airport Hilton, where the giant light board read, ‘Colorado Consortium on Human Rights’.

“Where the fuck are we?”

“I believe we’re near the airport,” I replied mildly.

“You’re taking me to a- to a geek conference?” He nearly shouted.

 “Give it a chance, Stuart. It’s about the plight of the human race,” I snapped, annoyed.

This was why I never took him to these kinds of things. I’d always been scared that he’d make me feel like the things I liked were stupid.

And here he was, doing just that.

“Does it mean that much to you?” I could hear the interest in his voice, and when I glanced over I was shocked to see he was actually waiting for my answer.

“I- yeah.”

“Okay.” He shrugged. “What can it hurt? And what exactly is the ‘plight of the human race’? I didn’t know we had a plight.”

“You have no idea,” I promised him. “Just wait.”

And he did. He waited through lectures on nuclear nonproliferation, and discussions of third world industrialization. He waited through talks of global warming and what was then thought more feasible; global cooling. He listened to tales of child soldiers in India and genocide in Africa, and at the end, he looked no more enlightened than he had sitting in the cab of my dad’s old sedan.

We burst from the conference into the night air, and I, at least was reeling from my information overload. I hadn’t know things were Quite So Bad, because back then, we didn’t believe in the possibility of the world ending with quite so much vigor. Oh sure, we imagined it, and maybe even feared it, but we thought it was far more likely that the Soviets would blast everything to hell or aliens might rain down from outer space than that mother nature might just give up on us all.

We fell back on the landing strip of greenery alongside the parking lot, ignoring the slushy snow and the warning signs to ‘keep off the grass’.

“What did you think?” I asked, turning to face my friend.

“I dunno,” Stuart murmured.

“That’s no answer.” I sat up, suddenly alert. “Seriously. What did you think.”

“It was a’ight.”

“Stuart,” I warned.

“Brof,” he warned right back.

“Why aren’t you giving me opinion?”

“’ell, it seems like we got us a whole shitload of opinions back there. Ain’t that enough?”

I could tell from the way his speech was starting to go Southern on me that something was wrong. I softened my tone. “I just wanted to know what you think.”

“A conference is no kind of date,” he growled, pushing a hand through his thick, sandy hair. Then he admitted, “I didn’t understand half of what they were sayin’.”

“What?” I whisper, nearly choking on the word.

“You might get all this intellectual crap Brof- you’re goin’ to college, leavin’ us all behind. But I- I’m not like you.”

What I’d done began to sink in.

“I hate- feeling stupid. I just hate it,” Stuart sighed, watching the stars like they held the secrets of the universe.

“You’re not stupid.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m-“ I paused, grabbing hold of his chin so he had to look me in the face. My sneakers nudged the sides of his legs where he reclined on the grass, and I knelt until my knees touched down and I was straddling him, adamantly replying, “I’m not lying. You’re so, so smart.”

“What are you on about?” He tried to turn his face to the side, annoyed.

I didn’t know how to convey what I was thinking, about all the times Stuart had one upped me intellectually without even knowing it, like when he calculated tips faster, or completed cross word puzzles more quickly. He was the best guy in town at fixing cars, and he knew practically all the names of the stars when I could barley identify the Big Dipper.

Sure, it wasn’t enough to get him into college, but I knew he was smart. And he needed to know too.

“You’re brilliant,” I told him earnestly, staring straight into his sky blue eyes. “I’m serious, Stuart. You’re one of the most brilliant people I know.”

“You’re required to say that.” He wrapped his arms around my waist, looping his fingers inside the back of my jeans. “As my best friend.”

“No, I’m required to say that because it’s true. And I’d never lie to you,” I confessed.

And then I did the one thing that I’d been thinking of, constantly, since we’d had that near death experience. I hadn’t wanted to tell Stuart, but I’d barely been focusing on the lectures too.

Because all I wanted was to do this, to kiss him.

So I did.

He kissed me back, soft, gentle, stealing the air from my lungs so that I felt like the sky must have been spinning overhead; the scientists had gotten it wrong, because I was certain in that moment that the whole world spun around Stuart and me.

For a second, he broke contact, and he mumbled, “Just do me a favor, Brof? Next time you pick a date, choose the movies or somethin’.”

He tugged me back down for another kiss.


	11. I Love It But I Hate The Taste

That night outside the airport Hilton, I realized kissing Stuart was pretty much my new favorite activity.  

It made me nervous, it made me dizzy, and it convinced me that I might be going insane.

This was _Stuart_ , who didn’t give me the same jittery, groin-tightening desire I felt for Randy Marsh.

At least, he never had before.

After that, I grabbed every opportunity to make out. At work, when we were side by side spinning pizza dough; in my room when we were listening to songs that made our bones hum in time with the music; and even once at Church. Although I’ll admit, I only showed up behind the chapel that time because I was worried Stuart might still be carrying on with Linda.

Not that I was jealous, or anything.

There was no sign of her, but it turned out to be an excellent idea anyway.

Strangely enough, other than the overt physical affection we shared, nothing else in our relationship seemed to change. It was like we were still best friends, albeit best friends who liked to suck face.

Which was a problem, of course.

Even though I was vaguely aware that Stuart might harbor deeper feelings than me, or at least I suspected him of it, I still thought that if our experiment inevitably failed we would be able to salvage something of our old friendship.

I _needed_ that to be true.

Because despite slowly growing accustomed to the newly acquired physical aspects of our relationship, I still wasn’t sure where I stood. I didn’t know what, if anything, I wanted from Stuart. And other than liking the sensation of  him pressing up against me, the way his fingers dug into my throat and how his lips were so warm they blazed...the rest didn’t seem all that important. I was content to languish together for one last endless summer, without giving a single thought to my impending college years, or the barely gone past.

Then Martha Moriarty showed up at Stuart’s door.

Martha was a notorious whore. Other than Liane Cartman, she was probably South Park’s foremost expert on penetration.

She was also Stuart’s ex-girlfriend.

I loathed her.

Let me set the scene.

It was a lazy Wednesday night. The heat outside was approaching never before seen temperatures. It was fifty nine degrees out and nearing the end of June. Almost all of our endless, ever-lasting snow had melted for the first time I could remember since I’d been small.

Neither Stuart nor I had work, and we’d decided to spend our time listening to records in his room, away from the watchful eyes of his sometimes strict parents. They alternated between wanting to give Stuart the freedom they felt young men deserved and wanting to shackle him down with so many Christian values I was surprised he could move beneath the weight of it all.

They were fearful of coddling him, and they were terrified of driving him away.

Unlike my own parents, who kept their emotions tightly in check so that we epitomized the nuclear family, Stuart’s had the tendency to wear their feelings openly, with pride. It was a trait Stuart had inherited, one that made him easy to read, and one that he passed on to his own children eventually.

I laid the correct way, my head on his pillow, my eyes tracing the whorls and curves of his ceiling while he laid the opposite direction, so that his feet sometimes tickled my ear. We held hands in the middle, and it was strange and warm.

Beneath us, his down comforter had heated to near stifling proportions, but we didn’t want to move. We were lost in the music.

While we languished, his parents must have snuck off for an impromptu date, church meeting, or whatever it was they liked to do on long summer nights, because somewhere in the middle of a rock ballad there was a relentless pounding at the front door that went unanswered.

Trust me, we _waited_ for someone to answer it. For at least ten minutes. Our laziness knew no bounds.

Reluctantly, Stuart clambered to his feet, tangling his legs with mine for a moment that felt too intense and intimate. He cast me a devilish grin and bounded down the stairs of his house, and I couldn’t help myself. I raced after him, gleefully.

When the door swung back, there was Martha, in all her glory.

All that giddiness inspired by Stuart’s stupid smile shriveled inside me, replaced with the nasty temptation to slam the door in her face.  

Martha was a cheerleader with more curves than a mountain road. She gave off this image of angelic innocence to all the adults in town, but those of us who’d gone to school with her knew of her proclivities for sex beneath the bleachers, cigarettes in back alleys, and the flask she always carried. It was cradled in her hand then, but her other arm was occupied, snaked around Carol’s waist.

Conflicting emotions flickered across Stuart’s face.

On the one hand, he hated Carol, passionately. At least as much as I disliked Martha.

On the other, Martha was wearing a dress that left very little to the imagination, or at least, that’s what I imagined he was thinking about when he looked at her. That’s what _I_ was thinking about, because she was hot as hell.

Of course, my sudden bout of lust was intermingled with total abhorrence for the girl, who was sizing Stuart up like he was some sort of giant chocolate dessert.

Like he didn’t belong to me.

“Hey, Stuey,” Martha purred, tossing her milk chocolate colored hair out of her eyes. “We’re looking for a good time.”

“That’s nice,” Stuart intoned. “But I’m kind of busy.”

“You don’t look busy,” Carol observed softly, glancing back and forth between me and him. I abruptly found her annoying.

“And you don’t look like a bitch- oh wait, y’do,” he said, his accent showing how agitated he was.

Carol frowned, obviously offended.

I wasn’t in the mood to defend her honor or anything. Chivalry only went so far when holding hands with my kind of boyfriend and listening to The Who was involved. But…I was never really sure why Stuart hated Carol so much, and I didn’t see any reason to be rude.

As much as I detested myself for it, my mother had raised me better.

“We’re not busy at all,” I said quickly, ignoring the glare Stuart shot in my direction. “Come on in.”

“Thanks, Jerry.”

Martha pecked my cheek. Her breath smelled like whiskey.

I flinched away from her lips, already knowing she’d left a red lipstick stain on the ridge of my cheek.

“What’d you go and do that for?” Stuart hissed, nudging me with his elbow. He was more than a little annoyed.

“I was being polite,” I whispered back.

Swiping the makeup from my face with his thumb, he muttered, “You don’t need to be polite to _them_.”

“Dude, just go with it, okay?”

Stuart resentfully nodded and plastered on this bright, fake smile, watching as Martha waltzed inside, Carol hanging off her arm. They were best friends, but I’d always wondered why someone as smart and soft spoken as Carol liked hanging out with loud mouthed Martha.

Then again, I guess I was exactly the same with Stuart; intelligent and composed next to his obtuse bawdiness. We really were the strangest pair of friends, but I liked to think we complemented each other.

Really, it wasn’t my place to judge anyone else.

“Hey, you got any vodka?” Martha called, sprawling across Stuart’s couch, her pumps tangled with the afghan Stuart’s grandmother had knit during the Depression or something. I doubted his mother would be pleased if she saw.

Then again, I doubted she’d be pleased with Martha’s presence, so I hoped she kept her distance.

“No,” Stuart replied shortly, now glaring in her general direction. I poked him, mouthing ‘be nice’.

“That’s okay,” Martha giggled. “I brought my own!”

I thought she meant the flask she was sloshing around in the air, but it turned out she had an entire bottle tucked away in her purse. I scowled, wondering if she was always so was well prepared. I knew exactly what was coming.

“We should play a drinking game,” Carol suggested as Martha sucked from the bottle like a fish.

“No. No, we really shouldn’t.” Stuart grimaced.

I agreed, fervently. We hardly needed to bring alcohol into the equation.

I just wanted them to leave, but I couldn’t bring myself to kick them out.

“Why not, man? It’s a good idea. We have to do _something._ ” I placed my hand on Stuart's shoulder, and I was surprised to feel how tense his muscles were beneath his thin t-shirt.

He turned toward me, searched my face, and I couldn’t quite place what flickered over his before he shrugged. “Fine. Whatever you want, Brof.”

For a moment, all I could feel was the warmth of his skin and the heat of his breath, even though he stood at least a foot away from me.

Then it was cold; he’d gone to play the gracious host with Carol and Martha, kneeling beside the couch and procuring a few shot glasses from their hiding spot under a loose floorboard beneath the carpet.

I was glad he was no longer invested in being pissed, but at the same time, I suddenly missed him with such ferocity that it scared me.

I hurried to his side, plopping down on the threadbare carpet and leaning into him a little.

He shot me a gratified look, his sky blue eyes darker than usual in the dim light of the living room.

We ended up playing a game that was almost impossible to win, which was kind of the point. By the end of it, all of us were seeing double, except for maybe Carol, who was smarter than I’d ever given her credit for.

Plus she had to leave mid-game to run up the McCormick’s phone bill so she could check in with Kevin Tucker. They were so close it was nauseating.

Stuart seemed to agree.

“How’s _Kevin_?”

“He’s fine.” Carol narrowed her eyes, probably because the way Stuart had asked it sounded more abrasive than inquiring.

“Not sick of you yet?”

“Stuart,” I warned, frustrated that every time the two of them were in a room together he felt the need to sink his teeth in her like an overly aggressive bulldog.

Sometimes, it felt like…well, foreplay.

“Nah,” she replied sweetly. “His attention span is longer than most boys in this town. Like you.”

“Hey, Carrie, don’t be mean,” Martha chimed in, drawing out the word ‘mean’ to nearly a minute. “Stuart’s…attention span is pretty long.”

“Attention spans and dicks aren’t the same thing, Marth,” Carol snapped, and then added, “Plus I seriously doubt McCormick’s that well end-“

I couldn’t take the childish bickering anymore.

Seriously, I might have snapped and killed someone if it had gone on.

So I interrupted, “Hey, okay! How about we all do something- else?”

Carol eased up, mouth quirking a little. “That’s…probably a good idea.”

“You would say that,” Stuart mumbled.

I hit him, hard, where I approximated his kidneys were. He didn’t say anything else for a while after that.

Possibly because he couldn’t talk without wincing.

We drank more, because at ten pm on…well, really on _any_ night, there’s very little to do around South Park, even in midsummer when the snow’s barely powder and the air is warm enough that parkas aren’t required.

Even on a night like that, when there was virtually a heat wave.

We drank so much, I was pretty sure my liver would never recover.

Then again, I hadn’t been to college yet.

I got up to use the bathroom, and once I returned, the real surprise of the night barreled into me, like a sucker punch to the gut.

There, on the couch, Carol was sitting with her legs crossed, her lips pressed into a thin line as she surveyed the scene on the floor like a Queen reigning over her kingdom. Only Carol’s kingdom consisted of Stuart, splayed out on the carpet with Martha devouring his face with kisses like a rabid animal.

I wasn’t so stupid to think that Stuart had initiated the attack; he was doing a half-decent job of making sure Martha’s lips never touched down on his, even though her mouth ravenously melded with every other part of his face. He dodged left to right, but his mobility was severely limited by the fact that Martha was straddling him, and really, if I’d known that this was what came of inviting notorious _sluts_ into one’s home I would have told Stuart to slam the door in her face and close the deadbolt.

Fully prepared to wrench the slobbery drunk girl off of him with all the wiry strength I’d gained from years of cross country in high school, my hand missed the collar of Martha’s shirt when she shot up, holding her fingers over her mouth.

She slurred, “Oh my gawd, I’m going to-“

The statement was followed by a mad dash to the bathroom.

The second I heard retching noises, I was torn. Stuart was throwing an intensely apologetic look my way and mouthing ‘she’s _crazy_ ’ so that Carol couldn’t see it. However, Stuart’s parents would eventually come home, and I didn’t want the mess to somehow be blamed on me if Martha missed the toilet.

Irritated, I backtracked to the bathroom.

It looked like I was Martha’s designated hair-holder-backer for the night. Even if I kind of wanted to use her glossy chestnut hair to strangle the bitch.

I mean seriously, it was like she’d come over looking for a booty call, or whatever it is the kids are calling it these days, zeroing in on Stuart as the easiest target in town.

Why couldn’t she have paid a visit to one of her _numerous_ exes?

By the time Martha was done emptying her stomach, I’d had enough. I knew that it was my fault for inviting her and Carol into Stuart’s house, but the night was _not_ going the way I’d thought it would, and my once-pleasant buzz had turned into steely tension in the back of my neck.

After all the puke I’d seen, my stomach was staging a revolt of its own, and I wasn’t sure if at least a quarter of the nausea could be attributed to the tight, sputtering flame-like feeling in my chest, which felt vaguely like jealousy.

But it couldn’t have been. I told myself that, reassured myself at least five times. I couldn’t be jealous, because even though I liked kissing Stuart, even though I enjoyed being around him, I didn’t love him.

Not the way I was supposed to.

At least, that’s what I thought right up until I walked back in the living room, where he sat next to Carol. Their heads were tilted in towards each other at just the right angles; the lamp light reflected off their hair, giving them little blond and red halos. They were discussing something, quietly. Civilly.

And it hurt more than seeing Martha pawing at him.

The slow smile twisting his lips, like Carol had told some kind of secret joke, made my insides burn like I’d eaten too many bowls of chili at the state fair. Something about their interaction was so personal, and my reaction was _stupid_. Carol was with Kevin, and she spent the majority of her time with Stuart bickering anyway.

But it didn’t matter how I tried to logic it out. Stuart’s smile kept growing.

Rage swelled up inside me, inexplicable and uncontainable.

“Carol,” I said, my voice stony. “Martha’s not feeling so good. You need to take her home.”

“Oh, I-“

“Now,” I interrupted.

Stuart narrowed his eyes at me, but I didn’t really care. I just wanted her _out_.

Once she was gone, he approached me carefully, as though I was some kind of wounded racoon. “You okay, Brof?”

“I’m fine. How do you know Carol?” I couldn’t stop the flush in my cheeks, the embarrassment I felt at the intrusive question. I tried to spin the conversation in a better direction. “I mean, I thought you guys didn’t like each other very much. But you seemed to be getting along _just fine_.”

Obviously, I failed.

“Are you- you’re not jealous, are you?”

“Absolutely not,” I yelped, trying to regain my composure, trying to fight the redness creeping up my hairline, tingeing the tips of my ears, “I’m just- curious, is all. Why do you hate her so much?”

“I don’t- hate her,” Stuart corrected softly, his accent emerging for the fortieth time that night. “I just don’t like her much. Carol’s family and mine run in the same Church circles and she’s just such a snobby bitch.”

He said that, but I couldn’t catch his cerulean eyes. Not even for a moment. It was like- he was lying to me.  

“Did you ever date her?” I don’t know what made me ask the question, but it bubbled up out of my mouth before I could stop it.

Stuart frowned, surprised by my interrogation. “No. She’s not my type.”

The feeling in my chest got worse.

Because Stuart was my best friend, and no girl was ‘not his type’.

That was what he said about Sherry Stevens in eighth grade. Sherry was the only girl who ever turned Stuart down, and he claimed she ‘wasn’t his type’ as a defensive thing. Right up until the junior prom, when Sherry decided being lonely and boyfriendless in high school wasn’t all it was worked up to be, and decided to jam her tongue down Stuart’s throat during the homecoming game.

She certainly was his type then.

I thought back then that Carol might be another Sherry.

She might have been the only person who’d ever rejected Stuart McCormick. 


	12. I Want A Boy Who’s So Drunk He Doesn’t Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t want to think about the fact that when I left South Park, I was planning to go for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...look, I uploaded all the old chapters of this onto AO3 yesterday (shout out to anyone if I spammed your inboxes this weekend), and this happened. 
> 
> I don't really do the SP fandom anymore - honestly, I feel like my writing style has completely changed. IT'S BEEN TEN YEARS. But I also hate leaving things incomplete, so....
> 
> Yep.

Mid-summer in South Park is like the encroachment of spring anywhere else. The weather begins to warm, so slightly it’s barely noticeable until you’re outside wearing a t-shirt and struck by the realization that you can actually put your parka in the closet for a month or two. Snow still stains the ground, but mostly in slushy, melting puddles that make the inside of your boots wet and get the bottom of your jeans soaked through. Some people can even lie out in fields and get tans.

Back then, it was much the same.

I could feel my skin growing a shade darker in the strong sunlight, although Stuart’s creamy Irish complexion burned something dreadful.

He didn’t mind though. He’d pull me out of my house for games of basketball or tag football without the slightest concern for his reddening cheeks, laughing while I fumbled balls because I was too distracted looking at him.

The nights were bright with stars and dark with mystery, cold enough that we had to light flickering bonfires if we wanted to stay out, drinking into the night.

We did that a few times, usually with guys from school.

One particular night, Stuart and I were walking back from work past Stark’s Pond and we spotted one of those bonfires.

“Hey look.” He tugged me forward, so I could see who had huddled around the pit. Stephen Stotch and Ryan Vulmer sat there, drinking PBR with resigned expressions. “What the fuck’s their problem?”

“Maybe we should go see,” I teased, with no real inclination to actually do so.

I got along okay with both guys, but they were jocks and I wasn’t, and it wasn’t like we had intimate relationships or anything.

“Maybe we should,” Stuart said firmly, pulling me over by the elbow.

I resented his strength, and the fact that I wasn’t even trying to fight him. He was kind of hot when he was all determined like that.

The thought taunted me all the way into the clearing. I’d been thinking things like that so frequently at this point that they’d almost ceased to bother me.

Stuart and sex were becoming synonymous in my head, even though we hadn’t done much more than drunkenly fumble above each other’s clothes.

I wanted to go farther; fuck, I was eighteen and horny all the time. Of course I wanted to go farther.

But I still had this underlying sense of unease every time I thought about the friendship I might ruin if I let my hormones run rampant.

And Stuart, for his part, seemed to understand. The second I hesitated, hands hovering over the zipper of his cords, he’d flash me a blinding smile and suggest that we go listen to music or something. Anything different.

But I noticed the fine tremor that went through his fingers when he fucked around with the record player. He was holding himself back for me, like he never would have with a girl. It was almost- sweet.

There was another thing, too, something else that was bothering me. Something different, holding me back.

Carol.

I couldn’t forget that night, a few weeks back. Carol and Stuart, close and intimate on the couch. The way Stuart watched her, with barely restrained…something.

Did he want her?

More than me?

Did it matter? Stuart and I were this complicated mess of emotions I was having trouble sorting, and I’d be leaving for school in a little over a month. I’d have a new life, with new friends, and even though I was making my peace with the way Stuart’s mouth felt over mine, I didn’t think it was going to last.

It all cycled back to the same idea. I wanted to preserve what Stuart and I were.

I didn’t realize that we’d already gone too far for that to ever happen.

“Vulmer! Stotch!” Stuart swung himself down onto one of the logs circling the fire, folding his long legs beneath him.

I followed after a moment’s hesitation, his grip on my arm too insistent to shake.

Ryan scowled. “What do you two want?”

Stuart made an indignant noise in reply, scuffing one foot in the dirt. “Can’t a guy be friendly ‘round here?”

“Sure,” Stephen replied. “You just usually – aren’t.”

I snorted. Fair enough.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” Stuart asked. He was eyeing the cooler of beer they had situated between them. After a beat, Ryan huffed and grabbed us both a bottle.

The glass was cool and sweating in my palm. Stuart was fire at my side.

“We’re bored,” Stephen intoned. “Randy fucking ditched us for Sharon. Again. We were supposed to have a guy’s night.”

Randy. I swallowed a deep sip of my beer and rubbed a hand over my chest. It didn’t hurt as much as I remembered it doing, even a month before. I guessed I was growing used to the idea – Randy was never going to give me a second chance. I’d screwed it up between us.

And I didn’t regret it as much as I used to.

“Must hurt,” Stuart remarked. He gave me a side eye, checking to see if I was going to burst into tears or something. But his words were for Stephen and Ryan. “Can’t imagine how it feels to be a crony without a leader.”

“Bite me, McCormick,” Stephen spit back.

“You’re not really my type, darlin’,” Stuart replied. He was all lazy, long lines, comfortable even as he gave other people shit. “But maybe Ryan’ll take you up on that.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Pass.”

“You both need to lighten up,” Stuart suggested. “Find some girls. Find a party. The night’s still young.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Stuart cocked an eyebrow. “You calling me easy?”

Stephen and Ryan laughed. It was low hanging fruit, after all.

I tapped a finger on Stuart’s knee. “I’ve got to get home soon. Do you want to stay here?”

Stuart grinned, cheeky, raising his beer in the air. “For a bit. I’ll see you later?”

“Later,” I agreed, giving Stephen and Ryan a quick salute.

They still looked maudlin, abandoned by their best friend.

It looked like Randy was burning all his bridges, that summer.

* * *

 

At home, my mom was sitting at our dining room table, talking animatedly with my father. She was always a forceful personality, bright and talkative, but she seemed even happier than usual. I dropped a kiss on her cheek and said, “Hi, Ma. What’s going on?”

“Oh! Jerry,” she exclaimed. “My friend Cleo is coming to visit next week. You remember Cleo – from South Dakota?”

I remembered Cleo. A loud, vibrant woman, who outshone my mom in enthusiasm. She had the reddest hair I’d ever seen.

“Sure,” I told her.

“Well, I was at Mabel Cartman’s, for our bridge game this afternoon, and Cleo called in. She was telling me all about her daughter – Sheila, I don’t think you’ve met. Sheila is going to Columbia in September. So I told her, my Jerry is going to NYU this fall. Can you believe it?”

My dad patted my shoulder with a hint of pride.

Mom rushed to continue, “Cleo was so impressed. We were thinking, maybe you and Sheila could get together? Go to that big city with a friend in tow, and all?”

“Uh.” I shrugged, beginning to feel acutely uncomfortable with the turn of this conversation. Cleo had the distinction of being my mother’s only Jewish friend. South Park didn’t boast a hugely diverse community, after all. But that meant that Sheila was, very likely, a good Jewish girl.

I could see where this was going.

But I also couldn’t see any way to turn my mother down. “Sure. That sounds great, Ma.”

The thought I’d had in the clearing, earlier, came back to me then. I was leaving soon. I’d be leaving Stuart behind.

That was natural. It was a part of growing up.

But abruptly, I missed him. I wished I’d stayed back in the woods, with Stuart and Ryan and Stephen. The same guys I’d known my whole life. I wanted their familiarity.

I didn’t want to think about the fact that when I left South Park, I was planning to go for good.

* * *

 

I snuck out of my room that night, walking towards the wrong side of the tracks.

The moon was high and full overhead, snow-white and bright as anything. I remember the way it silvered the grass and the leaves on the trees.

I remember how loud the crunch of gravel underneath my feet was, the worn-down asphalt breaking apart beneath my boots.

I threw a rock at Stuart’s window, not wanting to wake his parents by using the unlocked front door. It took three more to grab his attention, before the glass slid upward and he peered blearily out into the night.

“Brof? What’re you doing out there?”

His skin was pale and reflective in the moonlight, bare-chested. Stuart always slept in his underwear, and nothing else.

“Can I come up?” I asked, pasting on a weak smile.

“Sure?”

I made my way up and over the first floor windowsill, using that and the drain pipe to shimmy up to Stuart’s room. It wasn’t the first time I’d gone this route, and it likely wouldn’t be the last.

Stuart had to help leverage the lower half of my body inside, and when I fell in, I fell onto him, the two of us toppling onto his bed.

He groaned, louder than was advisable.

“Stuart, are you drunk?” I asked, looking down into his blue, blue eyes. His pupils were huge.

Which he explained by saying, “No. M’high. It’s totally different.”

I chuckled, shifting his body so that I had a better hold on it, wrapping one arm around his waist. For such a thin guy, he had a lot of heavy, wiry muscle that made it hard to maneuver.

But neither of us tried to sit back up.

“What’s up with the late night visit? You missed me?”

I grinned into his neck. “Yep. That’s exactly it.”

“Shucks, Brof. I missed you too.” Stuart smiled at me, humming, “You make me real.”

It was the worst improvisation of The Doors’ lyrics that I’d ever heard, but sprawled out in his arms, in his bed, I didn’t really mind. I was comfortable. I felt like everything was perfect.

That scared me shitless.

Stuart must have been able to see it in my eyes. He leaned in and pecked my lips, to kiss away the angst. He tasted like beer and weed and alpine air. He tasted the way he smelled.

“Hey.” He murmured, less a greeting than a reminder that he was there for me. He’d always been there for me. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m going to college soon.”

Stuart tensed up. “Yeah. I know that.”

I shifted, from my side back up on top of him.

His legs fell open immediately, accommodating my weight. I could feel him, even though my jeans and my shirt. Sleep warm heat and hard angles.

“Stuart,” I said. “My mom wants me to meet her friend’s daughter. She’s going to be in New York.”

Stuart blinked up at me, face half in shadow. “Why are you telling me this?”

I ran my hands up and down his sides, stroking the shape of his ribcage. “What if I go to New York and I don’t ever see you again?”

“Isn’t that your plan?” Stuart countered.

I was shocked. I hadn’t known that he knew that.

“I’m know you, Brof,” he confessed quietly. “I know you hate it here.”

“Then,” I began. “How is this experiment supposed to end? We fall in love by the end of summer, and then what? We never talk again?”

“I dunno,” Stuart replied. There’s this hurt note to his voice, this raw scrape that hits me like a needle to the heart. “I guess that depends on whether you’re falling in love.”

How’s a person supposed to know something like that, I wondered. How do you know when you’re head over heels?

I could feel Stuart under me, the slow, thickening hardness of him from my weight. I shifted, just to see lust spike across his face.

I never could have comprehended this, a few months before. I never would have imagined that I could do this to Stuart.

He hitched his hips up to meet mine, and I realized I was feeling it too.

“So, are you?” He pressed, hands smoothing over the shape of my back, down to my tailbone. He gripped my ass for one brief second, holding me tight against him.

“Yes,” I breathed back, with no idea as to whether it was true.

There were so many reasons I shouldn't have - Carol, college, our friendship. So many reasons to say no, and exactly one reason to say yes. All I knew was that I wanted to feel what it was like – a night with Stuart McCormick. I wanted to feel his hands on my cock and more.

I didn’t know what two men could do together, but.

I wanted to find out.

Stuart’s eyes widened, like he hadn’t expected me to agree. He said my name like it was some kind of prayer, a soft huff of, “ _Brof_.”

Then he surged up to kiss me, harder and deeper than he ever had before.

This time, I didn’t hesitate, when my hands hovered over the elastic at my waist. This time, I felt Stuart deftly work open the front of my jeans.

This time, we didn’t stop. 


End file.
